


On the Road, Redux

by SylvanWitch



Category: Spartacus: Vengeance
Genre: Comment Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-25
Updated: 2012-05-25
Packaged: 2017-11-06 00:45:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/412844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SylvanWitch/pseuds/SylvanWitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From the prompt:  Agron/Nasir, late 1950s in San Francisco, there is a fine line between poets and mechanics.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On the Road, Redux

**Author's Note:**

> Written for LJ comm Spartacus2010's Other Roads Spartacus Comment Ficathon for staringiscaring.

“Nope, I’m afraid it’s done for,” he said, leaning in over the engine, heedless of the grease or the way the motion stretched his jeans tight across his ass. His filthy white tank top left bare his broad, bronzed shoulders and made me reconsider what I was going to do to pay for the repairs.

I didn’t have any money. Hell, I wouldn’t have gotten here at all if I hadn’t stolen my father’s car. One of them, anyway.

“How much?” I asked, trying to sound tough, like I did this sort of thing all the time. Truth was, I’d never learned how to do things for myself. That’s why I’d left. That’s why I was here. 

He shrugged himself out from under the hood and gave me the once-over, his eyes showing more interest than was strictly necessary for bargaining’s sake. 

I was suddenly grateful I’d lost the argyle sweater and that I was wearing my oldest pair of jeans and the ragged deck shoes my mother’s maid kept trying to throw out.

“What’ve you got?” he asked, and I wondered if San Francisco’s reputation was earned or I was just wishing too much. His gaze was weighted, and I knew he wanted more than I might be willing to pay. 

That was a new experience.

“What do you want?” 

He snorted, maybe impatient at the series of questions that seemed to have taken the place of conversation. Maybe seeing me for what I was—a scared rich kid in way over his head.

Wiping his hands cursorily on an orange rag, he turned his back to me and sauntered over to a workbench along the wall. It was shadowed there inside the bay, and looking in from the bright sunshine, I could only see his figure, like a misplaced statue of a Roman god.

I wanted to see every perfect line.

Licking my lips, I followed him into the dark, where the heat of the day seeped away through the cool concrete floor. He had a Coke, the bottle slick in his hands, running with condensation, and when he tilted it back and drained it in one breathless swallow, I couldn’t take my eyes off the long column of his throat.

Without waiting for permission, without knowing what I was doing at all, I closed the distance between us and drew a line with my tongue from the base of his throat to his jaw. There, I felt the muscles bunch and release, and just against my hair I felt the breath of his sigh.

“Kid,” he whispered, hoarse and wanting, “What’re you doing here?” His hand tangled in my hair, and I had never been more glad that I hadn’t listened to my father’s constant harping to cut it.

In this garage? In this city? In his life?

As I let my lips drift across his mouth, words I’d never said in a tone I’d never used came from me in a torrent. Filthy words, words I’d only read from poets who my parents abhorred, who my professors had called crass and inelegant, words that had ripped me up, torn me wide open and made me take to the road to find…

This.

A man’s hands broad against my shaking shoulders. 

A man’s mouth trailing fire down my shivering skin.

A man’s sweat and salt and heat and life mingling with my own.

Back home, they’d called money freedom, and I’d believed them.

Now I knew there was only one way to be free, and it was just this: the feeling of truth between two strangers and the words we spoke over sweated skin as we hid from the sun and opened ourselves to a better light.


End file.
